


L'Affaire

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Infidelity, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, among other things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9397652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: Megan finds out Don is cheating on her. She decides to do something about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly the only author's note for this story is a gif of Carrie Bradshaw seizing the day and publicly smoking a joint in that one ep of Sex and the City.

 

Megan hadn’t been looking for Michael Ginsberg on that night, the night she arrived at SCDP dressed to be noticed and with condoms in her purse. She had been looking for Roger Sterling, because she was going to sleep with him and then sit across from Don at dinner and think about it. Because that was what Don deserved - because he was the one who broke their marriage covenant first. Not for any good reason; not because of a fight or a cooling off in their relationship. Because he could.

Well, so could she.

She wasn’t looking for Michael. But that was who she found.

 

 

Megan watched her commercial premiere on Sunday, surrounded by friends in her living room. On Tuesday her agent called and told her the same company wanted her to shoot a series of them, all fairytale themed - the next one was to be patterned after _Beauty and the Beast_. And on Friday she found out her husband was cheating on her.

It happened in the most cliched way. Not quite lipstick on his collar, but close. She found a phone number in his coat pocket, written on hotel stationery. Jennie, her name was. She had dotted the ‘i’ with a little heart.

It was so obvious. So careless - almost like he wanted her to know.

Megan hadn’t been expecting it. She didn’t snoop through Don’s things; she wasn’t that kind of wife. All she had been doing was hanging the coat up, and reaching into the pockets to get his new leather gloves, the ones she’d given him for Christmas that year. She was going to leave them on the table to remind herself that some of the stitches on the side were coming undone and needed mending. When her fingers touched paper she assumed she had discovered a balled-up receipt or cocktail napkin. Maybe a forgotten dollar bill.

Don said something to her and she didn’t hear what it was. That little piece of paper might as well have been a bomb, for all the damage it did.

“Megan?” Don asked, again. “What do you want for dinner?” He was holding the phone. They ordered in a lot, because Megan wasn’t the kind of wife who got dinner on the table every night either.

“I don’t care,” she said, and stuffed the phone number into the pocket of her jeans. She wondered if he would notice it was gone. Or ask her about it if he did.

She briefly entertained a vivid fantasy of marching into the kitchen and throwing the number on the table. Demanding answers, packing her bags. But by the time she reached the table she knew she wasn’t going to. She was faltering already.

He would only lie about it. She knew he would. That was what he’d always done to Betty. And they were alone. When Don got angry -

It got so ugly, last time. She wasn’t sure she could handle a repeat performance.

Megan searched her husband’s face for any sign of a change. A new line, a shadow in his eyes - anything that would let her know why. He looked completely normal. Even cheerful. Well, she supposed he had reason to be.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. He was pouring wine. “Want me to save you something?”

“Don’t bother,” she said. In the bedroom she put the phone number inside her purse, down in the bottom where it wouldn’t be spotted even if she forgot and left it unzipped. And then she changed into her nightgown and got under the covers. She didn’t sleep.

Instead she remembered. She remembered meeting Don for the first time, a mix of warnings and gossip from the other secretaries running through her head. She remembered their first kiss. Their wedding, both of them a little drunk at the altar. He’d been nervous, he said. “I don’t know why,” she’d teased him, straightening his collar. “ _You’re_ the one who’s done this before.” And she had marveled at the idea, that she could make the famous Don Draper nervous. She remembered watching the taillights of the car disappear down the road, and how both her knees were bruised the next day when he knocked her down. She had worn nylons that were darker than usual, to cover them up.

Megan turned on her side, trying to get away from the gnawing in the pit of her stomach.

He was who he was. She’d married him anyway. She married a cheating man and expected him to be faithful, because she had convinced herself that the rules didn’t apply to her.

 

 

Megan didn’t get out of bed the next morning. Usually she got dressed, made breakfast, watered the plants. Gave Don a big old lipstick kiss on his cheek that he had to wash off before he left for work. He didn’t think that was as funny as she did.

Not today. Today she watched Don get ready; tucking in the tail ends of his shirt, looping the tie around his neck. Imagined another woman’s hands all over him.

Was he not as attracted to her as he had been? They didn’t have sex as much. And the kids were around a lot more, which created an interruption.

“We should go somewhere special,” she said. “Just the two of us. Someplace romantic - we’ll make a second honeymoon of it.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Our first one didn’t go very well.”

They’d stayed in Vegas. Megan got food poisoning from a bad buffet, and the dry desert air made her hair crackle with static. In the pictures they brought back she looked exhausted and sweaty.

But even an adventure gone awry had seemed fun in those days. A good story they could tell to friends years down the road.

“All the more reason to try again,” she said.

“Where did you have in mind?”

“Hawaii,” she said. Warm and wet and green; waves on the shore and salt in the breeze. It would get him out of his head. Like California did, but more exotic. It was perfect.

“Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic.

She was struck by the indignity of having to ask her husband for a vacation. Back when she was working for the agency she could have booked it herself. Gone without him, even, if he was being an asshole. She had trusted him enough to give that security up.

“Will you be home for dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Don’t wait up,” he said. “I’m supposed to be going to Roger and Jane’s. I’ll try and duck out early.”

Megan stared at the back of his head hard enough to tear a hole in it. My god. He thought she was so stupid. As though she didn’t know that Roger and Jane broke up _months_ ago.

“You do that,” she said. He leaned over to kiss her and she squirmed deeper into the sheets to get away. “No,” she mumbled. “I’m sick.”

He left her alone. Good, because she was mad enough to kick at him if he didn’t. She listened to the door close and counted to ten, three times. Just in case he was coming back.

The first thing she did after throwing off the blankets was head straight for the phone. She dialed Jennie’s number without allowing for any second guesses. Her breathing was short and harsh, her chest tight; she held one hand over the receiver so she wouldn’t sound like she was making an obscene phone call.

“Hello?” a woman said. Her voice was entirely nondescript. “Hello? Who is this?”

Megan hung up.

 

 

Roger was the obvious choice. Megan had caught him looking at her - yes, like _that_ \- more than once. He and Don were very competitive. And Don didn’t have a lot of friends. She wanted it to be someone who was close to him, someone who could get under his skin. That narrowed her options.

He wasn’t physically repugnant. Which helped. And most of all Roger was easy; convincing him to go to bed with her wouldn’t be a strain. She concocted the simplest plan she could have: a short dress, a little flattery. “Back when I was working here I had such a crush on you -”

Men were very susceptible to that sort of thing.

She wore red. One of the girls at the agency had said that Mr. Sterling’s favorite colour on a woman was red.

And she was careful, or as careful as she could be under the circumstances. When she called to see if he would be in that evening - and if he would be alone - she did so under the guise of a secretary seeking his schedule for her boss. Luck was on her side. He was preparing for a presentation he had to give at the next partners meeting. In his case that meant lazing around in his office and drinking a screwdriver.

“Yes,” Caroline said. “Mr. Sterling will be able to accept a delivery at that time. Is it important?”

“Very important,” Megan assured her.

There was no excuse not to go. She had the pins lined up. Time to knock them down.

 

 

She was going to sleep with a man who wasn’t her husband. She was going to -

Megan had never cheated on anyone before.

 

 

The office was predictably dark and empty when she got there. Her old keys, the ones from her days at the reception desk, still worked. She crept into the quiet like a thief, eyes peeled for spots of light or movement.

She didn’t find any. Roger’s door was closed and no one was inside.

Megan went into the creative lounge. She sat down in the corner of one of the couches, shivering with relief or anger. It wasn’t bright enough to see even if she’d had a mirror, but she could tell her face was an embarrassed pink. She felt robbed. There were bars and parties all over Manhattan. She could go to one and find a man. But it wasn’t the same.

“What am I _doing_?” she asked herself.

The light turned on, and she screamed.

Michael stood by the switch, a hand on his chest in shock. His hair was less gelled down than she remembered, and he had a bit of a five o’clock shadow on his chin, but otherwise he looked the same as he had when she last saw him. He was wearing one of his ragged grandpa sweaters.

“Jeezum crow,” he said. “You almost gave me a fucking heart attack. I thought there was a break-in.”

“No,” she said, grabbing for her purse and for her cigarettes to sooth the rattled edges of her nerves. They weren’t in there, but she did find a thin joint rolling around amongst lipsticks and loose change. “It’s only me. Do you have a lighter?”

“No, but I can find you one.” He fetched a cheap plastic throwaway from one of the desks. “Don’s not here,” he said, as he handed it to her.

Megan lit up. “We must have gotten our wires crossed. What about Roger?”

“He went home,” Michael said. “I’m here ‘cause he’s getting some kinda delivery.”

Megan sighed. Of course. “That’s nice of you.”

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “Roger’s paying me. Why did you want to see him?”

“Oh,” she said. “It’s nothing. I wanted to ask him a question.” She glumly contemplated her situation. Did she really want to track Roger down at home? Could she justify showing up at his door? The possibility that he would already be with someone was high.

“Maybe I can help,” Michael said.

She studied him from the corner of her eye. Inspiration had struck. He was young, handsome, and available. Best of all, Don couldn’t stand him.

“Maybe you can,” she said. “Would you mind if I waited for Roger’s package with you?”

“Weren’t you looking for Don?”

“I’ll never find him now. And I could use the company.” She patted the spot next to her and looked at him from under her eyelashes.

“Okay,” he said. “If you want to.” He sounded unsure, like a kid getting pulled into a neighbourhood scheme that might get him in trouble. But he still climbed over the arm of the couch to sit down. “I mean, it won’t be very interesting.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “You’re a very interesting conversationalist.”

“I am?” he asked. “Since _when_?”

Megan laughed. After being submerged amongst indestructible male egos for so long - advertising, acting, fucking marriage - his chronic self-depreciating was amusing, even sweet. “Since always. I can never tell what you’re going to say.”

“Gotta agree with you there,” he said. “I don’t either, not till it comes out of my mouth.” He settled back into the cushions, becoming more comfortable. “I wish they’d put a TV in here.”

“You wouldn’t get any work done,” she said. “No one would.” She took a drag on the joint, tipping her head back, her cheeks hollowing. And then she pretended not to know what it meant that his eyes followed her movements, the line of her throat.

Oh, yes. This wasn’t going to be a chore at all.

She held the joint between two fingers and offered it to him. “Want some?”

He declined. “I don’t smoke.”

“Health conscious?”

“Nah,” he said. “I just want to keep my head clear. I don’t like not knowing what’s real and what isn’t.”

Megan exhaled smoke. “It’s not acid. You know the difference between them, right? Pot helps you unwind. Acid makes you trip.”

“I’m plenty relaxed,” said he, the least relaxed man she had ever met.

“Your loss,” Megan said. She felt better. The knot in her belly was untying itself. God bless her dealer and all the good work he did. It was just enough to start knitting her shattered mien back together, but not enough to make her too stoned to carry her plan forward. Hell, screw Michael and his anti-drug public service announcement. She didn’t want to share anyway.

“I saw your commercial the other night,” he said. “It came on while my Pop was watching Lawrence Welk.”

“So what do you think?” she asked. “Have I got star quality?”

“You looked great,” he said. “Real cute. It was a good idea. Not one of mine, though.”

“Not a fairytale fan?”

“I’ve used them in advertising before,” he said. “But I have a hard time believing in happy endings.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Wow. That’s a bit dark.”

He looked apologetic, but then shrugged. “So many Jewish fairytales are about someone hurting us in one way or another,” he said. “Unless you’d call those mythology. Or legends. There aren’t any fairies in them. Not always magic, either. Is there a difference?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Fairies are an Irish thing, I think. Everyone else is borrowing them. They lived underground.”

“The Irish?”

“No,” she said, holding back a giggle. “The fairies. They were driven underground by - someone. I can’t recall who.” She’d had an Irish boyfriend in college, a blistering republican who had been writing a thesis on the whole Celtic revival thing. But that was years ago, and she’d been more interested in making out with him than listening to children’s stories. “I may be too buzzed for this conversation.”

“Well, you look like Snow White,” he said. “My point is the commercial was a good one. Memorable.”

“Aha,” she said. “ _That’s_ what I like to hear. Being memorable is more important for an actress than almost anything else. More important than beauty, or maybe even talent. I have to get noticed before I can show anyone what I can do.”

“You ever miss it?” he asked. “Advertising?”

“No,” she said. “You miss working with me?”

“I - uh -” He was totally flustered, picking at a loose thread in the seam of his pants to avoid meeting her eye. It was adorable. “Sometimes.”

She grinned at him. “Only sometimes?”

“You were funny,” he said. “You, um. Brightened the place up a bit. But Don -”

He looked quickly at her, then away.

“Didn’t make it easy,” she said. “I know. Sorry about that. He was _always_ intruding, wasn’t he?”

“He’s the boss.”

“Still.” She finished the last of her joint and stubbed it out in a plastic cup sitting on the table. “It was very annoying.”

The corner of Michael’s mouth turned up. “Kinda.”

Megan stretched and arm out along the back of the couch and crossed her legs. She’d worn a short dress, which was too cold for outside but worth it now. “Can I ask you something?” When he made a gesture of agreement she went on. “Why didn’t you come to my birthday party? I invited you.”

She’d invited everyone on the creative team. If nothing else they could all use the night off. Peggy had gone, in her work clothes and with a present she hadn’t had time to wrap. Stan was there too, and went home with one of Megan’s friends. But Michael was nowhere to be found.

“You only invited me to be polite,” he said. “So I wouldn’t feel like the last kid picked for dodgeball.”

She smacked him on the arm, which made him jump. “I did _not_ ,” she said. “I wanted you to go. Don’t make assumptions, Michael.”

“Hey now,” he said. “There’s no call for violence. What would I have done there? I don’t know how to behave at parties. Or anywhere else. You worked with me, you should know that already.”

“For god’s sake,” she said. “You’re so overdramatic.”

He turned towards her, mouth open in shock. “Excuse _me_.”

“You are,” she insisted. “It’s a party, not a dental appointment. Or a pop quiz. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“Some people are bad at fun,” he said. “I’m bad at fun, okay?”

“You’re full of crap,” she said. “You’re an incurable pessimist, that’s what. How can you know what you like if you won’t even try it?”

“Being an actress is making you aggressive, Megan.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “I could use a bit of aggression.” She poked him in the leg with the toe of her shoe. “You should have gone. Lots of girls there, for one thing. Not like this sausage factory.”

“That’s - that’s - a point in your favour, I guess.”

“You could have gotten laid.”

“I would not have gotten laid,” he said with the flat, unamused inflection of a man having to explain that the earth revolved around the sun for the fortieth time.

“Oh no,” she said. “You _would_ have gotten laid. At my parties it’s very easy.”

“Not for me.”

“For everyone. Come to the next one - you’ll see.”

“I -” He took a visible breath and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. I’ll go to the next one.”

“Good,” she said. “You need a nice girl to loosen you up. Or maybe not such a nice one.”

“Why do you care?” he asked. “We don’t even work together anymore.”

“Do we need to?” she asked. “I like you, Michael. You’re decent, and decent people deserve to be happy. You like me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he said, with a brief glance at her. “You’re very likable.”

“There you go. And so you want me to be happy, right? Besides, you’re a good-looking guy. You’d do well in the right crowd. We just need to get you out of the parade of squares that’s always happening around here.”

Michael shook his head, his eyebrows knitting together. “This conversation is not what I expected.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m married, not dead.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I mean - we didn’t sit down and talk, before. You’re different than I thought.”

“What did you think?”

“That you were like somebody from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, but in real life. Glamorous. Always knowing what to say. If we were in the twenties you’d be doing the Charleston on tabletops.”

“Really?” Megan asked, amused. “That’s flattering.”

“Yeah. Bullshit, though.”

“Hey!”

He laughed, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen him look so lighthearted; it made him almost unrecognizable for a second. He had such a serious face. “Don’t get mad. This Megan is better. The one that calls the agency a sausage factory. I like her.”

“You have a really nice smile,” she said. It was a spontaneous compliment, not part of her seduction repertoire. “Has everyone ever told you?”

He bit his lip, like he was trying to stop another one from appearing. “I don’t think so.”

“You do,” she said. “I’d like to see it more often.”

“Stick around,” he said. “Maybe you will.”

Megan couldn’t believe her ears. That was flirting. Actual, honest to god flirting. She was almost shocked. And she wasn’t about to squander her opportunity.

“You ever think about doing something really crazy here,” she asked. “After everyone is gone?”

“Like what?”

“Ransacking the liquor cabinets,” she said. “Breaking into Bert’s office so you can see the Rothko. Snooping through desk drawers. They leave you alone in here so much. It would cross my mind, is all I’m saying.”

“There have been times I wanted to go into Don’s office and sit behind his desk,” Michael admitted. “Because I know it would piss him off. Pretend that I’m the one throwing orders around for a change. But I shouldn’t be telling you that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re his wife.”

“You think sometimes _I_ don’t want to be the one in charge?” she asked. “Let’s do it.”

“... No. We’ll get caught. He’s probably got a booby trap in there!”

“But now I want to. You got me started.” She clasped her hands and looked at him imploringly. It was a strangely earnest gesture to be making, considering what she was hoping to do once they were in there. “Please.”

He sighed and scratched his chin. “I - if you absolutely gotta. But only for a few minutes, and we’re putting everything back where we found it.”

The door was unlocked, which made everything easier. In fact the whole thing had been easy, from Michael’s agreeable presence onward. Megan felt like the universe was removing any obstacles that might have been in her way.

(Was that how Don felt, every time he successfully told a lie?)

She sat in Don’s chair first. Crossed her legs the way men did, ankle resting on knee, and put her hands behind her head. “How do I look?”

“Like you’re in the captain’s chair on Star Trek,” Michael said.

“The one with the ears,” she said.

“That’s Mr. Spock. He’s the science officer. And also the first officer, so he’s only the captain if -”

“Here,” she interrupted, and stood up before he go off on whatever Star Trek spiel he clearly had prepared. “You take a spin.”

He did, turning in a half circle so he could look out the window. “Not too shabby. And you can’t complain about the view.”

“You just need one more thing to complete the picture,” Megan said. She walked over to Don’s liquor caddy and poured out a finger of whiskey. It was the color of rich amber tea. When she was a little girl she used to think hard liquor tasted like caramels - the names sounded so delicious, scotch or bourbon or Jamaican rum. The reality had been a letdown. “Here you are, Mr. Draper. Will there be anything else?”

Michael looked at the square glass in his hand. “Am I supposed to drink this?” As though he was asking what the rules were. As though there were rules, anymore.

Megan leaned over the back of the chair. Her mouth was close to his ear. “I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do, sir.”

She watched his knuckles tighten around the glass.

And that was the moment. She knew it when she saw it.

“Thank you, Miss Calvet,” he said. His voice cracked; a nervous giggle trying to get through. “That will be all.”

“Oh, did you forget?” she asked. “You said we’d discuss my bonus.”

“Did I?”

She spun the chair back around until he was facing her. “Yes,” she said, and it was so fucked up, even more fucked up than she had imagined. And hotter. So much hotter. “Contingent on my performance, naturally.”

Making sure he was watching, she reached up under her skirt and slid her panties down.

“Jesus,” he said, and the glass dropped from his fumbling fingers. It might have cracked, it might have simply rolled away; she wasn’t paying attention.

Megan straddled him. Her underwear was discarded on the floor. She had done this before, in the same office. But that wasn’t what she was thinking of. She was thinking of how warm Michael was under her hands.

Almost feverish, when she tugged his sweater over his head, when she pulled his work shirt out from behind his belt and slid her hands underneath. “Megan,” he said, squirming. “Why?”

“Maybe I just want a fuck,” she said. “Not everything has to be about feelings, Michael. I bet you could use one, too.”

His muscles went deliciously tense at that word, at ‘fuck’. She ran her nails down his stomach and laughed when he sucked it in. His eyes were so big, so transparent. He didn’t hide anything. “Oh,” he said, and let her kiss him. His head tipped back.

She rubbed herself on his hardening cock. “I know you want me,” she said. “Feel that? Feel how I want you, too?”

“I can’t. You’re married,” he said. There was a flush creeping up his neck. “I can’t.”

“You can,” she said. “I’m giving you permission.”

He was the one who kissed her, this time, and rested his forehead against hers. She almost had him. Almost, but then he wiggled his way out from under her. “I can’t,” he said once more, and lifted her carefully up by her hips. He eased her into the chair and knelt beside it.

Megan closed her eyes. Shit. The one man in New York who cared about fidelity and she had thrown herself at him.

“Then go,” she said, cringing at how whiny she sounded. It had been a long trek of humiliation since she found out Don was sleeping around, and apparently the gantlet hadn’t ended yet. She needed to go home, take a bath. Wash the cheapness and failure off. Sleep for a year. She couldn’t bring herself to take a step. “Leave me here by myself.”

“It wouldn’t be right if I -” he said, and blew out a frustrated breath. “Not for me. But what if I -”

“What, Michael?”

“- helped you out,” he said.

She gave him a bug-eyed look of surprise that she was sure was very attractive. If he agreed he didn’t let on. His fingers touched the hem of her dress.

“You mean,” she said, “you’ll take care of everything?”

He swallowed visibly. The blush had reached his cheeks and he could barely meet her eye, but he soldiered on. “Yeah.”

Megan had received a lot of sexual offers over the years. This was new to her.

She didn’t pretend to know what was going on in his head, or why denying himself made him feel any better. But she wasn’t going to turn him down. Sex that was all about her? She could do that. She could definitely do that.

Opening her thighs became a dirtier, bolder act when she was the only one getting anything out of it. Nearly exhibitionist, like she was on stage. “You promise?”

“I promise,’ he said. “I do - here. Like this.” He pulled her down to the edge of the chair’s seat, got her knees hooked over the arms. Then he lifted her skirt.

“What are you going to do?” she asked. Her chest rose and fell with excitement.

“Whatever you need,” he said.

God, the mere thought made her pulse come alive between her legs. She could ask for anything, he _told_ her to ask for anything -

Was this how men felt, when a woman went down on her knees in front of them and said: _whatever you need_?

“I want you to fuck me with your fingers,” she said. “Work your way up to three.”

“Jesus,” he whimpered, and got down to it.

It was unbalanced and wonderful. She didn’t even have to touch him if she didn’t want to. But she did want to; she put her hands in his hair, stroked a palm down the back of his neck, which was as much bare skin as she was going to get from him. Grasped the shoulders of his shirt when he added the second finger.

“Like this?” he asked, breathless, as he stroked them inside of her.

“Yes,” she said, sighing. “Press up a little -”

He did, and then some. Rubbed exactly the right spot inside of her to make her clench up, her hips lifting. And once he found it he wouldn’t let up. He was _relentless_. She was wet enough now to hear it, the slippery sound of him fucking into her. Anyone who walked in would know -

“Harder,” she grunted, and grabbed a handful of his hair.

Michael grinned. She had been right - he had a great smile. “Fucking pushy,” he said.

“You asked for it.”

He slid in the third finger, stretching her around his knuckles. “So did you,” he said, “so did - oh my god, _look_ at you -”

Megan twisted off the seat. She couldn’t believe hot she was for it. His hand was slick to the wrist, dripping from her, from the way she was taking him in. She sobbed out his name when he twisted his fingers, curled them upwards. Fuck, fuck, he felt so _thick_ like that -

She was spread wide and throbbing and she needed - she needed -

“Michael, please,” she said. “Please - more -”

“God,” he chanted, fervent as a prayer. He was shaking as much as she was. “God, Megan, okay - okay -”

He flattened his fingers, got just the tip of his pinky into her. Just the tip, and that was enough - so _much_. She came with a shriek, kicked her feet, nearly fell off the chair. Came wet and filthy, gushing down his arm. It moved through her in waves and left her weak. “Fuck,” she said. “Oh, fuck.” When she opened her eyes again he looked shellshocked. His hair stuck up all over, and there were damp spots on his shirt.

“Does that always happen?” he asked.

“No,” she croaked. She was as limp as if she had screwing for hours.

“Did I - did I do something wrong?”

“God no,” she said. “Something right.” He was panting, shifting on his knees, and she almost wanted him to fuck her still even though she wasn’t sure she could have taken it. When he withdrew his fingers he left an ache behind. “I don’t think I can move,” she said.

“You want a glass of water, maybe?” he asked.

Megan bit back her laughter, but it came out in an inelegant snort. “You’re a special guy, Michael. Yes, I’d like some water.”

He took the opportunity to clean himself up while he was getting it, and so did she. Once she could peel herself off the chair, that is. She put her underwear back on and sat the edge of Don’s desk. The chair seemed verboten, somehow.

Michael came back in with his shirt tucked back in and his hair wet. He must have stuck his head under the tap, and impromptu cold shower. It was a kind of relief that he’d needed one. She didn’t like the idea of being the only one - affected. Moved by their encounter.

He handed her the water. They stared at each other.

(He was still hard, she noticed, and her hands itched to touch him.)

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” she asked. “I can. I want to. You could have my mouth -”

Michael put his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ, Megan.”

“What? It’s true.”

“I can’t believe I -” He shook himself, pushed his wet hair back. “What do I do, now? What happens afterwards?”

“You kiss me goodbye,” she said, and he did.

 

 

Megan ducked her head when Don leaned in outside the restaurant. “Lipstick,” she demurred. He pecked her on the cheek instead. She played with her napkin, watching the glow of the candles light his face and not hearing a single word he said. He caught on to her inattention, frowning across the table, and her nerve endings sparked like live wire. Fear? Anticipation?

“Are you still feeling off?” he asked.

I went to your office and let one of your employees fuck me raw, she thought. I can still feel him between my legs.

“Little bit of a headache,” she said. “Sorry.”

 

 

Megan couldn’t sleep that night. She lay on her side and watched the numbers on the bedside clock turn over until her eyes blurred. When she got out of bed Don didn’t move - he always slept heavily when he’d been drinking. She had a cigarette on the balcony, shivering in her flimsy robe, and watched the lights in the windows across the way turn off and on.

It was one-thirty in the morning. She picked up the phone from the living room table and carried it into the bathroom, carefully winding the cord under the door and locking it behind her. Then she turned on the shower and sat on the edge of the tub with the phone in her lap.

She would only let it ring once, she told herself. Once, and she would go back to bed and try to put her life back together first thing tomorrow.

She didn’t expect him to pick up, but he did. Right away. “It’s me,” she said. “Did I wake you?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Michael said. “Are you calling from home? Don didn’t throw you out, did he?’

“I’m home,” she said quickly before he could concoct a whole list of disaster scenarios. “He doesn’t - he doesn’t know.”

Michael sighed. “I admit I’m relieved, and not just for you. He already threatened to throw me in front of a cab one time.”

“ _What_?”

“Never mind,” said Michael. “It’s not the worse thing an employer ever said to me. Why’re you calling? Bad dreams?”

There’s a buzzing in my head that won’t stop, she thought. I don’t want to sleep next to my husband. I don’t trust him and I’m not sure I ever did. I want my mother.

“I couldn’t sleep, either,” she said. “And I thought I should apologize. I think I - I used you, earlier. That’s not fair.”

Megan heard rustling; sheets, she guessed. He must have been in his room. His voice was hoarse from the length of the day. “I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to.”

“I pushed you.”

“I know it,” he said, “but who’s to say that’s not what I like?”

Megan laughed and held the side of her hand to her mouth, eyes skittering sideways towards the door. There was no sound outside. Don hadn’t heard. He was still out cold. “Wow, Michael.”

“Oh, are we gonna be like strangers now?” he asked, cheeky as hell. “I gotta be appropriate? After all me and you have been through.”

She found herself smiling stupidly at nothing at all. The steam built from the shower behind her, spreading fog across the mirror. If she concentrated she could almost imagine herself somewhere warm and tropical, like that vacation she had wanted (and not wanted) to take with Don. Maybe Michael was with her, on a beach or in a market that sold fresh pineapples and coconuts.

But it was only her bathroom, and she was alone.

“Could I call you, sometimes?” she asked. “Just to talk, I swear. It would be nice to have a friend.”

“Don’t you have lots of friends?”

“None that I would ever tell about us,” she said. “So none that matter. They like me, they think I’m fun. Liking a person is different than knowing them.”

He went quiet for a minute. She didn’t interrupt his thoughts; whatever weighing of his options he was doing.

“Call after ten,” he said. “That’s when my father goes to bed.”

 

 

“Now it’s in my eyes,” said Edwin, leaning back from the makeup artist in self defense. “You’re getting it in my eyes!”

“All your attitude over a little greasepaint,” Mina snapped, gesturing at Megan with her makeup brush. “She’s got twice as much shit on her eyes and I don’t see her complaining. God, I can’t wait until society advances enough that men have to wear false eyelashes too. You’ll all kill yourself whining.”

Megan covered her grinning mouth with a cupped palm, careful not to smudge her lipstick. She was wearing an empire-waisted gown and a toffee brown wig that ended in a long curls. There were sprigs of baby’s breath tucked behind her ears. It made her look like a Mucha illustration.

“And you used to be in the theater,” she said to Edwin, who made a face that drew another growl from Mina. Maybe she should have been playing the Beast. But Megan doubted they would put _that_ on television, somehow.

No, Edwin had been chosen for his broad shoulders and his cheekbones, which looked catlike enough in the right light. There had been some debate about whether he should more closely resemble a tiger or a lion. The tiger was chosen. Apparently they were sexier. Megan had no opinion. Also the stripes got better marks from test audiences - more striking.

“Do you mind if I go have a cigarette?” she asked Mina.

“Watch those lips,” Mina warned, but Megan was an old hand at preserving stage makeup. She took her smoke outside, clenched between bared teeth, and went back in before the wind could screw up her wig.

Don was waiting for her, by her empty chair. Even worse, Michael stood beside him, ruddy faced with anger. Don didn’t look angry. He was smiling, and calm. Chatting with Mina like nothing was wrong. Megan’s stomach dropped into her shoes.

“Hi, honey,” she said, and put every ounce of acting ability she had behind the words. “Did you come down to wish me luck?” She wouldn’t look at Michael. She couldn’t.

“Of course,” he said. “That and to deliver a few last minute script changes.” He had the papers in his hand. She didn’t look at those either.

“What kind of script changes?” she asked.

“There’s supposed to be a kiss,” said Michael, suddenly. “It’s a fairytale. It has to end with a kiss.”

“Beauty and the Beast doesn’t end with a kiss,” said Don. “Her tears bring him back to life. And you didn’t need to accompany me down here to tell everyone your version of the ending.”

“I wrote it,” he said. “So, yeah, I kinda did. They’re not going to be able to shoot tears the same way they can shoot a kiss, Don. It doesn’t have the same effect. If she kisses him, it’s a reversal of the way -”

“We already discussed this.”

“- of the way these things usually go, because it gives her the power, _Don_. The client liked it. They wanted Megan to kiss the Beast. She would get to be the focus. Why don’t you want her to be the focus?”

“There’s a craft services table over there,” said Don. “Go get a cup of coffee. You could use something to wake you up.”

Michael set his jaw. He glanced at Megan once - who was too terrified to meet his eyes - and left. Not in the direction of craft services.

“Don?” Megan asked. “Did the company approve the changes?”

He didn’t say anything. Just gave her this look, this look that was heavy with contempt -

“Don?” she asked. “Did you even check with them?”

Mina had finished making a predator of Edwin. They were gone. Megan was alone, and Don wrapped his hand around her arm.

“We should go somewhere and talk,” he said.

“Don -”

“It won’t take long.”

Megan yanked her arm from his grasp. “ _No_ ,” she hissed. “Are you trying to sabotage me on purpose? I have to be on set in five minutes!”

He leaned in close, his mouth next to her ear. The way he used to when he wanted to whisper sweet nothings. “You know what they call women who kiss men who aren’t their husbands?”

Her response was a surprise even to herself. “I know you called one your mother,” she said.

Don stepped back, unsteady, almost like she’d slapped him. His face was ashen. Megan’s heart pounded so hard that she felt dizzy. But people were filing in; the director, the key grips, the camera men.

And so the spell was broken.

Megan didn’t watch Don leave. She went and knelt beside Edwin in his bower - silk flowers and twisted wood and a round, baroque mirror lying on the ground. She tried to focus on him, but she could see her reflection in the glass. Her Snow Peach coated lips, her shaking chin -

“Wait,” she said. “A second. I just need a second -”

She made it to the bathroom before the tears started.

“Hey,” Michael said. He was at the far end of the sinks. She hadn’t seen him when she came in, too wrapped up in her own drama. “ _Hey_ , what’s wrong? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” she said, and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of a paper towel. “Why are you in here?”

He walked over to her. His fingers were clenched into fists, and she knew he was forcing himself not to touch her. “Because I mistook it for the men’s room. You want me to go stall them?”

“No,” Megan said, and kissed him, even though she was going to ruin her lipstick; even though Don could have been right outside the door. Even though she’d told herself she wasn’t going to do this anymore, that they were only going to be friends, that he was someone she called when she needed to laugh.

He kissed her back, like he had before, and then he was fumbling with her skirt. “You want - you want me to -”

“Yes,” she said, “watch my dress, it’s a costume -”

“Here,” he said, “here,” and knelt down on the tile floor. Slowly, reverently, like the beginning of a prayer and with a glance up at her for confirmation. And then he put his hands on her hips and backed her up against the sink. She let him.

Megan held her skirt up, out of his way. That was all she had to do. He pulled her underwear down and put his head between her thighs. The first, stuttering breath before his mouth touched her. The careful press of his tongue, sliding inside her. She wondered what she looked like to him; open, wet, eager.

She was hyper aware of every noise in the room. A drip from the tap, sharp as falling pennies. The fan humming overhead. Her own cries, harsh, echoing off the walls. He licked along her cleft, pressing down with the tip of his tongue when he got to her clit. She liked it - audibly, obviously - so he did it again, until she was squirming against his face. He made this contented sound, deep in his throat, and she hissed in frustration.

Megan got louder as she got closer. When his nose bumped against her she squealed, and he laughed, fuck him.

He also tried to stop, a sin she couldn’t forgive. “You -” he said, but she dragged him back in by the hair, dropping the hem of her gauzy dress. “Oh,” he said, breathing hard, _oh_ , and finished her off with his slippery fingertips and his hot mouth, working together. She bit the side of her hand.

Afterwards she slid down to the floor and sat there with him. “You should go,” he said. “Someone’ll come looking.”

“I will,” she said. “Thank you.”

“That really helps you, doesn’t it?” he asked. “You weren’t kidding.”

Megan took in the stress lines under his eyes, the pallor under his sex flush. She played with the messy curls that were falling out over his forehead. He leaned into it. “What helps you?”

He shivered and closed his eyes. “Nothing,” he said.

 

 

Megan slept in Sally’s room that night. Don got home late, and he didn’t ask her to come to bed.

 

 

The scarred wood of the old door was covered with a layer of dark brown paint that didn’t do much to spruce it up. Megan could see gouges by the doorknob where someone had tried to pry it open by force at some point. She peered through thick, foggy glass but could only see a vague silhouette as Michael came closer. The hinges creaked when he opened it.

“Hi,” he said, hovering in the doorway, looking shyer and younger than he ever did at work. “Come in, I guess.”

“You _guess_ ,” she said, and brushed past him. He gave her a little smile and shrugged.

“We don’t entertain much,” he said. “I’d ask if you wanted to be shown around, but what am I showing.”

She had recalled his address from her days as a secretary - the memory of an actress was like an elephant - but had never visited. If it was a real state of emergency the creative team would converge at Peggy’s place, but she hadn’t been included. Don always wanted her with him. He’d never let her work weekends.

She might have said the apartment was like some of the ones she rented before she was married, crowded with girls trying to make it in showbiz and chosen by cheapness. But she would have been lying. Michael’s place was smaller and darker. The appliances and the wallpaper were equally ancient. She was reminded of pictures she’d seen of immigrant families at home near the turn of the century. Women in aprons and big hair, holding scared children on their laps. Cramped kitchens that only just qualified as such, beds set up in the living room because there wasn’t enough room for everyone.

She’d known he didn’t have much money, but -

“We try to keep it clean,” he said, running his fingers along the edge of the sink.

Megan felt a rush of horror. God, had her thoughts shown on her face? What if she told him she was all the more impressed by how much he accomplished, all on his own? No, Christ. What was wrong with her. That was also terrible.

She nudged the door shut with her foot instead and kissed him. “I bet that’s the original hardwood.”

He laughed, tucking his head into her neck. “Probably.”

“And I like your tub. The clawed feet are a nice detail.”

“That fucking thing,” he said, and looked over. “We don’t use it. It’s… a hip bath, or something, from back in the day.”

Megan turned towards the living room. She could see some family photos on the wall. “Ooh,” she said. “Any cute kindergarten pictures?”

He pulled her into the hallway by her hand. “How about we go see the bedroom instead?”

“This is a distraction tactic,” she said. “You can’t fool me.” She didn’t complain, however. The bedroom was where she’d hoped to end up.

It was a narrow room with a slanting roof. One small four-pane window in the back; it was slightly crooked, like it had been put in as an afterthought. His bed was a twin, and the dresser was so close to it he would have to kneel on the mattress to open a drawer.

“It used to be some kinda pantry,” he said. “Or a closet. They converted it.”

Megan put the bag she’d brought with her on the foot of the bed. “Cozy,” she said, and shoved him down.

He stuck his hand down the back of her shirt. “You could say so.”

“You don’t seem very sick for a man playing hooky from work,” she said. “Did you stay home so we could get together?”

She was teasing, but a shadow crossed his face. “No, I’m not sick. I was having - I don’t know what to call it. A black mood.”

“A black mood?”

“Like in Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I woke up feeling tired and freaked out and like I’d scream if I had to hear one more client pick apart my work. I’m useless today. So I stayed home. Better that than trashing my reputation any more than I already have.” He frowned. “This shit is why I keep getting fired. I know that. But I don’t know how to stop.”

She tucked in against his side, guilty for having pressed her company on him. “That sounds serious.”

He traced the shape of her cheekbone with the tip of his finger. “Don’t worry. It’ll pass. It always does.”

“We can cuddle instead,” she said. “I am capable of it.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Ignore it,” she said. “It’s dumb sex stuff-”

He dove down to the end of the bed before she could stop him. “Now I _have_ to know.”

“Oh no,” she groaned, covering her face. Through her fingers she saw him pull a tangled cord out of the bag, inch by inch, like he was pulling a string of handkerchiefs from a hat.

“I don’t get it,” he said, looking quizzically at the massager. “What’s it do?”

She sat up. “Plug it in. I’ll show you.”

He did, and it started buzzing. It was pink plastic, shaped almost like a miniature hairdryer or a toy gun except for the rubber attachment on the front. She pressed it against the thin skin between his thumb and forefinger.

“See?” she said.

“Not really,” he told her, but the implications caught up with him all at once. “Oh,” he said, “you want me to - uh -”

“Yes,” she said. “But not right off the bat. I want to be warmed up nice and slow.”

“Warmed up, huh?” He grinned and shut the massager off. “Can I ask you for something first?”

“Absolutely.”

“Take your clothes off,” he said. “I’d like to see you, this time. All of you.”

Megan went warm all over, just from the way he was watching her. “Okay,” she said. “But you first. I’m not taking a thing off until you do.”

“Fuck,” he said. “You sure know how to take the wind out of a guy.”

She leaned back against his headboard and crossed her arms above her head. “I’m waiting.”

He peeled his t-shirt off with incredible self-consciousness, hanging his head, the kind of undressing you did for a medical appointment. But even that was a turn-on, somehow, how vulnerable he was to her. She put her palm flat to the center of his chest and his mouth fell open a little. He was already getting hard, just from this, swelling in his pyjama pants.

“Am I the first person you’ve done this for?”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “I wouldn’t even change in front of the other guys in the locker room.”

“That’s spectacular,” she said. “No, it really is.”

“Your turn,” he said, and touched the buttons on her blouse. She undid the first one; he got the picture and took care of the rest.

She could have done a striptease, drawn it out, but she was too excited. Blouse, boots, tights, skirt - all on the floor in a heap; and then she was tugging his pants down. He stopped her when she reached for his boxers.

“Those should stay on,” he said.

“So you still don’t want to -”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

And why was that so hot, why was she so _into_ it? He was turning her into some kind of freak. It must have been the Catholicism, she thought desperately, all that history of self denial and punishment impacting her sex life. It had taken years but finally the reckoning had arrived.

“That’s right,” she said. “It doesn’t.” She slipped her thigh between his legs and pressed against him.

“Fuck,” he said, startled, his hips lifting against his will. “Megan -”

“I won’t make you come,” she said. “I promise. Trust me?”

He let out a long, sharp breath. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. “Go ahead.”

She kissed him the whole time; his cheeks, his lips, the side of his jaw. He was grinding against her like his body was entirely out of his control, sweating, allowing her to hold him down (hands firm on his shoulders, on his wrists) and touch him like she wanted to. She panted into his mouth, swore under her breath when he moaned. He was blushing down his neck and she bit at the red, a vampire, a starving woman, a flag to a bull. There was a wet spot beginning to form at the front of his boxers; she could feel it against the skin of her thigh.

“It almost _hurts_ ,” he said. “Megan, I’m not - I might -”

“Shhh,” she said, and stroked his hair. “I’ll stop, sweetheart. I’ll stop.”

She shed the rest of her underwear and he turned her over on her stomach. He smoothed his hands over her shoulders, her hips. The curve of her bottom. Then he put his mouth all the places his hands had been. He kissed the side of her neck, all the way down her trembling spine. She was practically melted into the blankets; when was the last time a man had touched her, and she’d _relaxed_? There was a ticklish spot on her hip that made her twitch. He spent some time there, mouthing the sensitive skin, before nipping at her ass cheek. It made her laugh.

He even kissed the back of her calves.

Megan went up on her knees when he pushed two fingers into her from behind, grabbing the headboard.

Michael wrapped an arm around her middle, tugging her back against him. “This is why you come to me,” he said, fucking into her. “Isn’t it?” She was nestled in the cradle of his hips, his cock brushing against her every time she took a breath. His mouth was open against the back of her neck; he kept rocking up and down. Tormenting himself.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you think about it?” he asked. “When you’re at home, with him?”

“Oh god, oh god,” Megan chanted, jerking forward when he turned on the massager and pressed it against her clit. She pressed her forehead against the wood of the headboard, but there was no use in trying to get control over herself. She didn’t want to, she didn’t -

“Tell me,” he begged. “Megan, please -”

Her fingernails scraped paint. “ _Yes_ ,” she sobbed out, and fell over the edge with a short cry. It was almost too much, her thighs clamping down around his hand. She was boneless and swept away. Nothing but nerve endings.

They broke apart. He onto his back, her legs folding under her. It took a minute for either of them to speak.

“You could take care of yourself,” she whispered. “It wouldn’t - that doesn’t break the rules. I could watch. I wouldn’t touch you.”

He cupped a hand over himself, shivering. “Don’t,” he said. “You know how hard you are to say no to?”

She didn’t have an answer.

 

 

He helped her get into her clothes, after. Buttoned up her blouse, zipped up the back of her skirt, even got down there while she was sitting on the edge of the bed and put her boots on for her. She looked down at him (kneeling there so sweet, still in his shorts) and blushed like it was the dirtiest thing they’d done all day.

“What?” he asked.

“I like the view,” she said.

 

 

Michael took her to a baseball game in April. The ground was still thawing, the sluggish creep of an uncertain spring, and they huddled together under their Yankees caps. Megan sucked the salt off peanuts and threw the shells on the ground. “Why baseball?” she asked. “Are you a fan?”

“No,” he said. “Someone gave us tickets at work. No one else wanted them.” He glanced sideways at her, his eyes shaded under the brim of his hat. “I wanted to remember what you looked like in the sunlight.”

 

 

Megan should have known something was up the minute Stan called out at her from his office. She liked him well enough in a general way, but they’d never had any reason to interact one on one. And Megan was supposed to be going to a client dinner with Don, which made her want to be literally anywhere else. They weren’t even sleeping in the same bed most of the time.

(Only when the kids were over, too embarrassed to -)

She wandered through the half empty offices, waiting for him to finish up on the phone, fiddling with an earring that kept snagging on the collar of her coat. She wanted to see Michael and was terrified to see Michael, convinced that one inappropriate look in front of Don could undo them both. When Stan decided to say hello it was a welcome interruption. When he handed her a beer, all the more so.

“It’s Mexican,” he said. “We’re trying to figure out how to sell it north of the border.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said, and moved a stack of magazines aside so she could sit in one of the plastic chairs. The beer was dark and malty, kind of like a stout.

“We usually do,” Stan said, and closed the door. “I haven’t seen you around in awhile.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said. “Getting ready for auditions, my acting classes -”

“Your marital problems,” he said as he pulled out a chair to sit across from her.

The mouthful of beer Megan was swallowing went down like dishwater. “What?” she asked, trying to recover. “I’m not - I -”

Stan crossed his arms. He looked like a completely different person than the one Megan knew, usually standing beside Peggy and grinning a lot. “Wow,” he said, flatly sarcastic. “I would’ve thought you were a better actress than this, Megan.”

Megan slammed her bottle down on the table. It sloshed over the rim, soaking into somebody's notes. “Screw you. My marriage is none of your business - where do you get _off_?”

“Oh, but we’re not talking about where I get off, are we? We’re talking about where _you_ get off.”

She could actually feel herself go pale. Shit, shit, _shit_. How did he know. How could he possibly know? She felt sick to her stomach. “He told you?”

“No,” Stan said. “He didn’t have to, because he is in all ways a really fucking obvious person. Did you understand that when you started this up with him? And I have just one question, about that.”

“One,” she said. “And then I’m leaving.” She was sweating so much that she would have to do a bathroom check to make sure it hadn’t soaked through her dress.

“Why him?”

“Are you _jealous_?” she snapped.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “He’s not experienced enough to handle this situation, you gotta know that. You want to step out on your marriage, fine. But don’t explode someone else’s life because of it. Before you he’d never had a girlfriend. He tell you that?”

“No,” she said, and looked away. She didn’t know why Michael hadn’t. Did he think she would make fun of him?

Stan sighed and passed a hand over his face. He didn’t seem angry any longer, only tired. The beard made him look like an actual adult instead of an overgrown frat boy. “Look. All I’m saying is that he’s taking a huge risk. He doesn’t have very much, and he’s clearly willing to put it on the chopping block for your sake. I hope you appreciate it.”

Megan retrieved her purse from the floor and tried to pull the shreds of her tattered dignity around her. “I don’t want to hear from you about this subject ever again.”

“You won’t.” She was the one issuing ultimatums, but she was also the one being dismissed.

Megan practically threw herself through the door to get away from him. So much so that she ran straight into Don, who was clearly searching for her. Impulsively, out of a kind of fear reflex, she kissed his cheek.

“What was that for?” he asked, surprised.

“Nothing,” she said. “I guess I missed you.”

 

 

Don woke her that night, when she was wrapped in his daughter’s sheets. She hadn’t been sleeping very heavily - too disturbed by the grip of fitful dreams. He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her hair back, the way he used to when she was upset.

“I haven’t been a very good husband,” he said.

Megan felt the unexpected prickle of tears in her eyes. “I haven’t been a very good wife.”

“Come to bed,” he said. “Please.”

And Megan tried to recall the last time he had asked her for something with a please on the end. It was one of those words he didn’t say. That had to mean something, didn’t it? And she thought about Stan, and how he thought she should leave Michael alone, and how he was probably _right_ -

She nodded, mutely, and let Don pick her up. He carried her from the room like a new bride. Like they were starting fresh.

 

 

The Rosen’s bathroom was decorated in shades of cream and gold, right down to the towels. Megan leaned back against their sink and tried to figure out what was wrong with her.

It was their turn to host, so she and Don had come over with a bottle of wine in hand. It was good wine, and good company. Don had even been the one to suggest the get together, which was so rare for him. He was putting in an effort. Her life was going well. She and Don were a real couple again. So why didn’t she feel better about it?

Megan hadn’t called Michael in weeks. He hadn’t contacted her. She supposed that meant they were over, and she writhed with guilt that she hadn’t been able to break it off, to give him a real ending -

(Sometimes she wished her husband wasn’t her husband. Sometimes she wished he was someone else entirely.)

She’d done the right thing, and it didn’t matter. Had she damaged her marriage beyond repair after all? Was it her fault that she was so aimless, so hollow and panicky and trapped? Don was the one who came back. He had come to _her_.

Megan pressed her forehead against the glass of the mirror. She needed to calm down.

There was a knock at the door.

“Sweetie?” Sylvia asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Megan said. Her voice was steadier than she would have predicted. “Just - unexpected period. You know.”

“Oh, I hate that,” Sylvia said. “You need anything?”

“No, I’m good,” Megan said. “Thank you. You’re so nice.” She noticed the small kindnesses people offered her now. Much more than she had before she’d been married.

“I’ll be in the living room,” said Sylvia, and left Megan alone to stall some more. She looked through Sylvia’s collection of perfumes - she seemed to have a thing for Chanel - and opened a jewelry box with mother-of-pearl cherry blossoms embossed on it.

Sylvia tended to favor delicate jewelry; thin strands of pearls, gold chains with a solitaire diamond on the end. Her earrings were clip-ons and when Megan tried a ring on it didn’t fit over her knuckle. She wondered why Sylvia kept the box in here; maybe for ease of dressing, and it was her everyday stuff.

Megan’s hand closed around something small and dark and vaguely familiar. When she brought it up to her sightline she understood why she had recognized it.

The item was a men’s cufflink, black onyx. And it belonged to Don.

The stone was engraved with his supposed zodiac symbol - the one that aligned with Don Draper’s date of birth, not Dick Whitman’s. She was certain it was his. The kids had it engraved special at Tiffany’s. Sally had saved up her money, and Megan had been sure to let her know how thoughtful that was.

Heart pounding, she dropped the cufflink into her pocket. Her palms were damp so she wiped them on her pants. Yet by the time she got back to the gathering, with their onion dip and swedish meatballs, she had gone numb to her fingertips. She remained that way for the rest of the night. She answered when spoken to. And she smiled at Sylvia Rosen, bright, flat, not meaning a second of it.

This is what she had given Michael up for.

“Here,” she said afterwards, as she and Don were getting ready for bed, and deposited the cufflink into his hand. “I found it earlier.”

He turned it over, examining it. “Thanks,” he said. “I thought I lost this for good.” Megan looked at his pleased smile, the one that went all the way to his eyes, and felt nothing at all.

 

 

Megan went to a party. Megan went to a party because there was nothing else for her to do.

Her friend Joanne was throwing it. She lived in the village and regularly hosted a whole coterie of artists and musicians around her table. People slept on the couches, came and went, traded a communal key back and forth. The apartment was dark and crowded and filled with pot smoke. Megan took a joint off someone as soon as she came in the door.

“Heeey,” Joanne called out, bombed, from where she was sitting in her boyfriend’s lap. “It’s commercial girl. You bring your old man?”

“No,” said Megan. “Forget him.” She’d tried to call Michael earlier, not even to try and see him, but just to apologize. He hadn’t been home, or at least that was what his father said. Somehow, she found herself blaming Don for that too.

Which wasn’t fair, but she didn’t care about fair.

“He let you out of your cage, huh?”

Megan went hot with anger. She knew how her friends viewed Don, but did they have to be so flippant about it? “I want to get high,” she said. “What’ve you got?”

“Up or down?”

Megan gave her a thumbs down. Joanne grinned wide and lazy before grabbing a glass bowl filled with pills. They were a rainbow of colors, yellow and red and blue. Grownup candy. “You pick,” Megan said, and closed her eyes. She let Joanne put a capsule on her tongue, and kiss her too.

Thirty minutes later she was lying on the kitchen floor with no intentions of getting up. “Where’s the phone?” she kept asking. “Where’s the phone? I want to call my boyfriend.”

A hand, anonymous, passed the receiver down to her. “Thought you were married.”

“Screw marriage,” she said. “Marriage is for capitalists.” He snickered, and she got him to dial for her as well, since she didn’t want to move. Someone else groped her bare thigh; she lashed out with the receiver and heard a curse. The groper staggered away, muttering. Fuck him and fuck Don and fuck everybody.

Back to important matters: calling Michael. The phone rang and rang. “Come on,” she said. “Come on come on come _on_ -”

“Hello?” Michael said.

“Thank god,” Megan burst out. “I thought I’d never speak to you again.”

“What?” Michael said. “Megan, is that you? Why does your voice sound funny?”

“I took something,” she said. “But that doesn’t matter. I called to say I miss you and I’m on the floor and I love you, Michael, I love you a lot. I think I’m in love with you. Isn’t that the craziest thing?” And she laughed, for the sheer joy of it, her chest heaving. Her eyelids felt heavy. Maybe she would take a nap, in a minute. “Can I come over?”

The noise he made was very similar to how tea kettles whistled as they boiled over. “Oh my god,” he said. “Oh my god, you _cannot_ be saying this right now -”

“I am,” she said. “I did. When can I see you?”

“What did you take?” Michael asked. “Megan, try and think. What did it look like?”

“It was a pill,” Megan said. “A barbi - a bar - a bluebird.”

“What the hell is a bluebird?”

“It’s very relaxing,” said Megan. “That’s what it is.”

“A downer. You took a downer? How many?”

“One,” she said, holding her finger up to clarify.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. He sounded like he was gritting his teeth. “Must be some horse pill. Listen to me carefully: you gotta tell me the address, so I can come get you. Can you do that?”

“Oh, I’m so glad,” Megan said. “I was hoping you’d -”

“Megan.”

“Avenue A and 10th street,” she said. “The red brick walkup on the corner. There’ll be cars parked outside, we’re having a party.”

“Of course you are,” he said, and hung up.

By the time he got there she was so dizzy she could barely stand. She could hear him going from person to person, saying he was a friend of hers, had anyone seen her -

“In here!” she called out, and banged on the linoleum. He came in and helped her up, slinging one of her arms over his shoulder and lifting with his thighs. Her legs teetered back and forth but she got them under control.

“I love you,” she said again, and tried to make out with him.

“There’s a cab waiting downstairs,” he said, fending her off as best he could. “Behave yourself.”

He took her to a hotel. She made it to the room, and the bed, and she didn’t remember much more after that.

 

 

Megan woke up still holding Michael’s hand. She was overheated and more hungover than she had ever been in her life. Her dress was soaked through with spilled alcohol. She needed a glass of water and a long, hot bath; she was so fuzzy-headed that the idea of becoming ambulatory to get either was agony. But she was holding Michael’s hand.

He was asleep on his back, snoring mildly. Lord help her, she even found that adorable. Shit, she thought. Have I got it bad or what.

It was novel, seeing him so still. She watched him for a time, drinking in the sight, and brushed back his curls to press a kiss to his forehead. When he didn’t stir she got up and quietly made her way outside. Not before leaving a note; he ought to know where she was going, and what she was about to do.

She took the subway home. No one made an issue of her state of disarray; it was New York on a Saturday morning.

The doorman at her building gave her a look of pop-eyed shock but didn’t ask. He let her in, tipping his hat, and she went straight up to where Don was waiting for her.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, and she could tell he hadn’t slept. The muscle that jumped in his jaw matched his expression of cold, furious disapproval. Once she would have begged forgiveness - but no longer. She wasn’t scared of him anymore.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked. “You look like you spent the night in a ditch.”

Megan balled her hands into fists. Her hair was a snarl of hairspray that would turn away any comb. She had makeup streaked across her face. Her dress was a ruin of wrinkles. Was she supposed to give a damn?

“I want a divorce,” she said. “I don’t want to be your wife for one minute longer.”

 

 

She phoned Michael after she’d settled in at a girlfriend’s place. He was frantic.

“I couldn’t figure out what to do,” he said. “Was I supposed to call you, what was Don gonna say if I did -”

“Michael,” she said. “Did you read my note? Especially the ending?”

“The part that said: do you want to be my boyfriend, Y/N?”

“Well?” she asked. “ _Do you_?”

 

 

Stan and Michael helped her move house. She didn’t need to hire professionals; she was leaving most of the furniture for Don and her just-purchased bed was already set up. The apartment was a tiny one bedroom in Midtown. It had an old radiator that coughed when turned on and thick, foggy glass in all the windows. The walls were whitewashed and plastered over to hide years of picture holes and bad wallpaper choices. It was perfect.

Whatever problem Stan had with her had evaporated. He shook her hand before he left. “I really respect what you’re doing,” he said in brotherly way that made her proud and embarrassed both.

She and Michael sat together on her bed. There were boxes all over; she’d only unpacked the essentials. They kept sneaking looks at each other, grinning, and looking away.

He bounced his foot off the side of the mattress. “So,” he said.

“So.”

“There’s no TV yet.”

“There isn’t,” she agreed.

“What should we do?”

She nudged him with her elbow. “I have a few ideas.”

He cleared his throat. “Anything special?”

“Now that you mention it,” she said, and dragged her suitcase out from under the bed. He raised his eyebrows when she unzipped it and fell backwards, cracking up, when he saw what she had in there.

“You’re crazy,” he said. “Where do you even _get_ this stuff.”

“The pervert stores in Times Square,” she said, and tossed the dildo and accompanying harness onto the bed. “Are you interested? It’s not a requirement. It goes -”

“I know where it _goes_ , Megan. I’m not that ignorant to the ways of men and women.”

“And?”

He pressed his lips together, considering. “Okay,” he said, all of a sudden, as determined as he had ever been about a pitch or making someone listen to one of his ideas. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

Megan shook her head in disbelief. “You’re the _best_ ,” she said. “Now get your clothes off. All of them.”

She got him slicked up and put him on his hands and knees. He let out a nervous giggle, shaky with the newness of it, and she put her dry hand on the back of his neck to calm him and to hold him in place.

“God,” he said. “Kinda an awkward position, isn’t it?”

Well, that kind of self consciousness wouldn’t do. “Is it?” she said, innocently, and wrapped her vaseline-covered fist around his cock. The giggle turned into a moan as she pumped him, leaving shiny streaks on his skin. “I like having you at my mercy. Don’t you agree, Michael?” She squeezed the base of his cock and rolled his balls in her hand. “Laid out all pretty.”

He choked out her name. She saw his fingers bunch up the sheets, the hair on the back of his neck getting damp with sweat. “Do it,” he said. “Come on, do it -”

Megan rubbed the head of her dick between his cheeks. “Shhh. We’re going slow, remember?”

“Yes,” he said. “But can we please get _started_?” And oh, he sounded so _desperate_ -

“Relax, baby,” she said. “I’ll take care of you.”

She pushed in incrementally, stopping every few seconds to let him adjust. He was breathing sharply through his nose but she didn’t think he was hurting. “Yeah,” he said, and licked his lips. “Keep going. I want more.”

He’d gone a little soft, but that was normal. She had to bite her lip at how beautiful he looked, an image from the best kind of filthy dream, with his pink cheeks and his mouth going slack from the intensity of it. Letting her inside of him. It was staggeringly intimate, and _god_ it would have been so amazing if she could have known how he felt around her.

But this was wonderful, too. She touched the place where she was sinking into his body, marvelling, and he made a low, hungry noise and surprised the hell out of her by pushing back until she slid home in one smooth stroke.

“Jesus, Michael,” she said, “Jesus _god_.”

“I had to,” he said, gasping. “I had - it feels so - I don’t know. I don’t know. Odd. Achy. But kind of good.”

“Baby,’ she said, again, and couldn’t help but move her hips.

A tremor ran through him; she dragged a hand down his back to calm it. No use - he was coming apart too quickly, his legs falling open, his shoulders dropping towards the blankets. At her first real thrust he grunted and buried his face in the pillows.

“Holy - ” he said.

“You like it?” She repeated the action, deeper this time.

“Ah - yeah, _yeah_. Again, please?”

She gripped his waist and did just that, fucking him slow and steady, the slap of their flesh together and his labored breathing loud in the small room. It got easier as he got lost in the sensation. The tension that he always carried around with him was gone but he twitched everywhere she touched him, so receptive to what she was doing that spreading her fingers across his ribs produced a startled exhale. He could barely keep his legs under him. Fucking gorgeous -

“I could do this all day,” she said, and “Oh, Michael, Michael. I wish I could take a picture, I really do -”

“God,” he said. “Megan, don’t, I _can’t_ -” His voice was shredded. He sounded like he was going to cry, or laugh.

“You’re so brave,” she said. “I love you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he wailed, and came all over the bed in long, drawn out pulses. She didn’t even have to get a hand on him, not one single finger, but she did, after. Dragged the pad of her thumb up the length of his cock through the mess he’d made, watching him ride out the aftershocks.

She warned him when she was going to pull out and was very cautious. He whined all the same, an _owwwww_ that was a touch theatrical and ended once they separated. Megan kissed him and then gave his butt a pat. “Aw, honey. You okay?”

“I think so,” he said. “Sure is a hell of a way to pop your cherry.”

“Imagine how it is for girls,” she said, and started to divest herself of the harness. It had a lot of buckles, and the movement kept rubbing against her aroused flesh. She wasn’t sure if she wanted more or less of it.

“Oh,” Michael said, groggy, like he was waking up from a nap. He reached for the straps, trying to get them off her.

“You don’t have to anything,” she said as he slipped the leather down her hips. “This one’s for you, you’ve done so much for me already -”

“Megan,” he said, patiently. “Please shut up and sit on my face.”

Megan blinked. “Alright,” she said. “I will.” And so she did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had some difficulties tracking down the source of the image at the beginning, but I believe it is a painting by Evgeniy Monahov. I couldn't not use it; the resemblance was too perfect.


End file.
